Natal Day
by outtabreath
Summary: Tony finally remembers Pepper's birthday.
1. Office

I don 't own them, it or, well, much of anything.

I am so happy to have the best support group any fanfic writer could ever ask for - miss steph and the ever-amazing women of Writers Anonymous.

I'm assuming that it took Tony about two months to build Iron Man after he returned from Afghanistan – which puts The Benefit about five months after Pepper's birthday. If I'm wrong, let me know.

**~*~Natal Day by outtabreath~*~**

Part One of Two: Office

There was a jar of green olives with a red and gold bow perched atop the lid sitting on her desk when Virginia Potts, Chief Executive Officer of Stark Industries, arrived at work on her birthday.

She was around her desk and setting down her purse and a pile of contracts before she noticed it – all clear and silver and green and red and gold with Greek lettering.

There was no card signed with a scrawling name; no note written in barely legible, spiky script; no smarmy autographed headshot signed "Keep Flying! Tony Stark a.k.a. Iron Man."

There didn't need to be.

"Idiot," she muttered, because only Tony would wait seven months to apologize; only Tony would choose to finally remember her birthday for the first time in fifteen years _this _way.

"_Idiot_," she said louder, because he wasn't the only one, obviously, because she was still standing and staring at the thing like it was the new Manolo Blahnik black patent leather Mary Janes (only $645 at Neiman Marcus) he _should've_ bought her.

His behavior was to be expected – he was, after all, _Tony Stark_; hers was not – she was, after all, _Pepper Potts_.

"Idiot," she said fondly - and she meant it of both of them because they were, truly – and the last of her ire bled out as she stared at the bow that appeared to be made out of thin metal sheets, crafted and painted by hand.

She slid into her desk chair still staring at the gift; it sparkled back at her it all of its olivey glory. She poked it and it tipped slightly and then she was smiling because, damn it all, it was working.

And, right on cue, her Blackberry began bleating at her - "Iron Man", of course – and anticipation percolated in her chest like fireworks fueled by an arc reactor.

She finally looked away from the olives and answered. "Tony, I told you stop fiddling around with my phone. I don't _like_ Black Sabbath."

"Don't be ridiculous, who doesn't like Black Sabbath, Potts?" he parried back. "Where are you and what are you wearing? And please describe your outfit slowly and with lots of adjectives."

"I'm at work, Stark," she said briskly, stacking papers, logging into her SI account, and ignoring the second half of his question, even with the olives inches away from her busy fingers; instead, she asked, "And what are you doing _up_ at 8 AM on a Wednesday?"

"I get up early every morning, _Pep_per."

"Being _still up_ doesn't count, To_ny_."

"I got eight hours of sleep last night."

She snorted, her eyes drawn irresistibly back to the jar.

"Fine, seven – but I'm a changed man, why won't you admit that?" he asked then continued without waiting for her answer. "Now that we've established that I'm awake at eight _in the_ _morning_, might I remind you that it's your birthday."

"I know that," she said, trying to focus on her inbox but failing miserably, the Greek olives calling to her like some ancient Siren.

"Why are you at work?" he asked, as if he really didn't know, even though she knew better.

"Because I am the Chief Executive Officer of a multinational corporation, remember?"

"Yeah, the CEO of _my_ corporation and I say you shouldn't have to work on your birthday."

She finally picked up the jar; it was heavy and cool in her hand – she weighed it in her hands like _possibilities_ – things she'd imagined but never _dreamed_.

"Potts?" he wheedled. "Are you even _listening_ to me?"

"I always listen to you, Tony," she said, peering closely at the olives – they were huge and green and her mouth began to water.

"If only that were true. Where are you now?"

"Still at my desk." She traced the intricate Greek lettering with her fingertips and wondered what it said - it was as incomprehensible to her as the man she was speaking to used to be.

"What? Why? I just told you that you didn't need to work on your birthday."

She set the present back on her desk and glanced at her inbox and thought about her calendar and found herself barely caring; and yet, still, she said, "I have lots to do today, Tony."

"You have lots to do every day, Pepper. Bag, leave, play hooky. Come to the beach with me."

"You can't go to the beach," she said even as she pushed down the image of him in swim trunks that slid dangerously down his hips as he jogged towards her across shifting sand.

"I'll wear a _shirt_. And so should you – that skin of yours burns likes crazy."

"Yet another in a long list of reasons why we can't go to the beach today."

"Fine, come to the house and we'll swim in the pool. That'd be better anyway," he said, starting to speed through his words like he always did when he was warming to an idea. "I could go shirtless and you could wear a tiny little bikini that you'd never wear in public. I could rub SPF 85 all over you…."

"You don't have SPF 85," she said, refusing to think about him putting his hands _all over_ her body.

"I stocked up yesterday."

And, just like that, Pepper Potts knew that she wasn't going to be spending the day in meetings and reviewing spreadsheets.

For once.

She picked at the label with the Greek words on it with a fingernail and tried to remember when she'd last gotten a pedicure because, irrationally, she wanted her toes to look decent by the pool; "You did no such thing," she said as she realized her toes were going to be the last thing he looked at – even though she was in no way and most definitely _not_ going to wear a bikini of any size.

She would, however, not protest a whit if he chose to wear swim trunks that rode dangerously low.

"Well, I sent Happy to the drugstore for it – it's not like _I _could go to CVS, Potts. I'd start a riot. It'd be like an Axe commercial – and I have a dozen bottles sitting beside the pool just waiting for you."

"You've never seen an Axe commercial, Tony," she said, because when it came to Tony, it was always best to deal with one impossible thing at a time.

"They play them all the time on The Speed Channel. Besides, I own Unilever."

"You don't own Unilever," she sighed and started to mentally write her apologies for cancelling meetings at the last minute.

"Maybe I should. Could you imagine how many bottles of Axe I'd sell? I can see the ad campaign now – you ripping the suit and my clothes off in slow motion."

"Ripping your head off would be more likely," she corrected, starting to type a memo to her assistant: _Due to unforeseen circumstances related to the superhero who used to be our boss and still bears the name of our company…  
_  
"But the clothes thing will be much more fun. Where are you now?"

"Sitting at my desk and working;" she kept typing: _I regretfully will be unable to keep the meetings scheduled for today…  
_  
"God, you just can't take direction, can you? Leave! Flee! Come over here! I won't even make you call me Iron Man."

"I never call you Iron Man," she pointed out as she kept typing – _so please reschedule them. Further, I will be unable to answer email or phone calls for the…_.

"But you could if you wanted to. Listen to me: Step away from the computer and get over here. I'll make you all the dirty martinis you want."

She continued typing **- **_remainder of the day _– and waited.

"Potts? Are you still there?"

"I was waiting for you to say 'emphasis on the dirty;'" her fingers flew:_ Please triage and address anything urgent. I will be available at 8 A.M. tomorrow.  
_  
"Am I allowed to say that?" He sounded exceedingly delighted.

"No," she said, pressing send and turning her monitor off. "Why olives, Tony?"

There was a moment of rushing silence before he answered, "What were you hoping for? A pair of Iron Man underwear worn by the Iron Man himself?"

"No. Shoes, Tony. Always get me shoes."

"Shoes would've been good, too," he said musingly. "Something architecturally impossible that make your legs look like…" he drifted off for a moment.

"Vivier, Prada, Blahnik," she prompted.

"The gift that keeps on giving."

"Exactly," she said, "and with so many options you choose to give me Greek olives."

"_Expensive_ Greek olives that are practically impossible to find in the States," he said quickly. "I had to go to Greece to get 'em for you."

"When did you go to Greece?" she demanded, her heart stuttering; she stopped in the process of rising and sank back into her chair.

"Irrelevant," he said, taking a deep breath to continue.

"No, not irrelevant," she said in the breach. "I _need_ to know where you are and what you're up to at all times."

"_Pepper_," he said in a silky voice.

"You are the public face and name of this company," she continued firmly, her fingernails beating a tattoo against the desk and panic beating in her veins – she _hated_ that she didn't know his every move anymore .

"Oh, _that_," he sighed.

"Yes, _that_," she said.

"Okay, I didn't actually fly the suit to Greece to buy you olives for your birthday because that would've been _stupid_. I sent Rhodey in the jet."

"No, you didn't," she said, hoping she was right. The thought of the PR fallout alone made her woozy.

"God! Fine! Why do you need to know _everything_? I ordered away for them. On the Internet. At the library. The _public_ library. Nothing owned by Stark Industries or Anthony Stark was utilized in procuring those olives for you."

"Thank you," she said – even though she knew he was lying and, therefore, was still mentally wording memos to the Board on how Stark resources would never _never_ again be used for personal business.

"Good. Are you in the car on your way over here yet?"

"No," she said, even as she stood and grabbed up her purse and the olives. She left the contracts.

"I'll put the suit on and fly over there to get you, I _swear_, Potts. Jarvis! Ready the 'bots!"

He must've been holding the phone away from his body, because she could hear Jarvis' response. "Immediately, Sir, with all haste."

"Leave Jarvis alone, Tony," she said, ever mindful of how it was to be ordered around by Tony Stark.

"Only if you stop working and take your birthday off before that lovely skin of yours breaks out from the stress."

"My skin _never_ breaks out," she said, closing her door behind her and walking through empty and quiet corridors. "And if you wanted me to take today off – if you were so sure that I _would _take today off - why did you send my present to the office?"

"Belay that order, Jarvis – I think she's coming to her senses," he shouted - she couldn't hear Jarvis' response, but she hoped that he defended her in some small measure – then Tony was back and focusing on her while sounding horribly wounded. "I didn't send it. I delivered it myself. I walked into your office and put it on your desk with my own two hands."

"How did you find my office?"

"It's next to mine."

"How did you find yours?"

"I have been there before, Miss Potts."

"Once."

"Six times," he said, sounding far more affronted than he had any right to.

"So, back to my earlier question."

"Because I knew you'd go to work because you're, well, _you_."

"I just want to go on the record that you're sending me some seriously mixed signals, Tony," she said, meaning it in two distinct ways.

There was a long pause, then his voice, "I would've thought the signals were pretty clear, Pepper."

She smiled and knew without a doubt she was making the right decision. "I'm not wearing a bathing suit and I won't drink martinis until at least noon, Tony. Make sure to have breakfast ready for me – real pancakes and real bacon. And coffee. With lots of cream and sugar," she said briskly – like she used to when she was his assistant and he had _things_ to do - then she turned her phone off and headed for her car.


	2. Pool

Disclaimers and thanks in part one.

Part Two of Two: Pool

It had been several weeks since she'd been to Tony's house and she found - after the initial, customary moment of relief that he hadn't blown it to smithereens in her absence - that she'd _missed_ it – missed the anticipation of walking through the front door with absolutely no idea what she'd find inside: Tony in tight jeans and tighter shirts with wild hair and eyes jogging up the stairs to pull her bodily down to the workshop to show her his latest stroke of genius, Rhodey sprawled on the couch looking maligned at having been kept up all night by Tony in full manic mode, mysterious explosions, odd smells, the 'bots running amuck, music that was deafening even through floors and walls and concrete.

Her office was _boring._ It was quiet and predictable and professional and she didn't like it as much as she'd thought she would.

Tony's house, just like Tony himself, was never, ever boring.

Which was part of the reason she was standing in the foyer at 9 A.M. on her birthday, purse clutched in one hand, a jar of Very Expensive Greek olives in the other.

"Good morning, and happy birthday, Miss Potts," Jarvis prompted from all around her. "It's very good to see you again."

"Thank you, Jarvis," she said trying to remember when she'd stopped feeling silly speaking to the air and failing utterly. "You reminded him, didn't you?"

"On the contrary, Miss Potts, Mr. Stark remembered on his own."

She was half-convinced he was lying before she reminded herself, like she used to a hundred times a day, that Jarvis was only a computer and that every element of his personality had been gifted to him by the person she was here to see – the same person who seemed to have truly remembered her birthday.

Finally.

"Where is he?"

"Mr. Stark is awaiting your arrival by the pool and wished for me to tell you that your breakfast is in the kitchen."

Pepper sniffed the air. The house smelled of cologne and the musky scent that was Tony's, the lingering smell of burned metal and soldered electronics. Pine, oddly. Coffee. Absolutely no pancakes or bacon.

"He just _cannot_ take an order, can he?" she muttered as she slipped out of her shoes and padded into the kitchen.

"No, Miss Potts, he cannot," Jarvis said.

Five boxes of sugar cereal were lined up neatly on the counter beside a bowl, spoon, coffee mug and a note that said, in an almost indecipherable scrawl, _milk in fridge, coffee in pot, superhero in pool.  
_  
She set her purse and her present on the counter, took off her suit jacket and began to make herself breakfast.

"How has he really been, Jarvis?" she asked, pouring Frosted Flakes and Lucky Charms into her bowl – it _was_ her birthday, after all – and retrieving the milk from the refrigerator.

"Curiously restrained," the computer answered, just as she trained him to. "He has refrained from alcohol for two weeks, has been sleeping and eating regularly and has utilized the cardiovascular training equipment ten out of the last thirteen days."

She poured herself coffee and bit back a sigh. "It seems that he does better when I'm not around."

"If I might disagree, Miss Potts, I believe that he believes it would please you."

_Just a computer_, she reminded herself. _Just a computer…._

That was programmed by Tony Stark.

"Thank you, Jarvis," she said.

"Certainly, Miss. And please visit more often."

She smiled to the ceiling, "Most definitely."

"Where's your bikini?" Tony asked her five minutes later as she navigated her way down to the pool, cereal and coffee in her hands and the olives tucked under her arm.

"Where are my pancakes?" she asked, most definitely not looking at how his swim trunks clung to his hips and almost certainly not worrying about how many bruises she could see mottling his chest and arms.

"You were serious about that?"

"Very. It's my birthday."

"You want me to send Happy to IHOP to get you some? Like you said, it _is_ your birthday and the birthday girl…."

She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. It'd been a while since she'd been a girl and even longer since she'd wanted to be called one.

"The birthday _person_ should get what they want."

"I'm fine with my cereal," she said, settling herself under an umbrella at a table; she had to move a bottle of 85 SPF suntan lotion to make room for everything she carried and, shockingly, her hand shook a little as she did so. "A little sugar-induced heart attack is fun once in a while." She took a mouthful of cereal and shuddered at the overwhelming, throat-clogging sweetness of the stuff. "How the hell do you eat this every morning?" she demanded.

"Sugar. It does a body good," he smirked – and damn it all, she found herself looking over that selfsame body and found herself agreeing with him.

Another spoonful of sugary goodness helped her refocus – right up until he chose to splash off of the float he'd been lolling on and paddle towards where she was sitting. She found herself looking at the muscles in his back because the muscles in his back were very hard _not _to look at.

At the edge of the pool, he leaned arms that were too well-muscled to really, truly be attractive on the concrete and asked, "Is your bikini under your suit?"

"I told you Tony, I'm not wearing a bikini." But she _was_ looking at those arms.

A leer lit up his face making him look more devil than human. "Are we skinny dipping today, Potts?"

"No, Stark. We are sitting by the pool and talking and, at precisely noon, I'm going to start drinking dirty martinis and keep going until I forget what my job is for a while."

"Sounds like a good day."

She cast him a baleful gaze. "You'll be drinking water."

"Po-."

"Two weeks," she said, smiling beatifically.

"Jarvis has a big mouth."

"He doesn't actually have a mouth, Tony," she noted, shoveling another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. It was starting to grow on her.

Then he pressed up and out of the water and she couldn't not look at his body, even though she knew he was going to see her eyes skim over the skin and muscle and, _oh God, _why hadn't he given her a fan for her birthday?

He noticed her notice and his eyes darkened as he prowled, honest to God _prowled_, towards her.

She swallowed heavily and verbally feinted. "This suit is a Dolce and Gabbana and it cost way more than those olives. If you get one drop of water on it you'll be buying me one in every color."

"Yet another reason to try my skinny-dipping idea," he said, giving her a wide-berth anyway and settling down across the suddenly way-too-small table from her.

She sighed and focused on the water and the sunlight that dappled it, sipping her coffee.

"So, how was the office?" he asked in a sing-song voice as he picked up the jar of olives and studied it. "They do look good, don't they?"

"Yes, and the office was…" - _stuffy_, she thought_, boring, empty, too quiet, too clean, too free of talking computers and robots with personalities and _you - "Fine. You should come visit once in a while, seeing as how your name is still on the building."

He shrugged and tipped the jar to its side and set it spinning. "I'd come to visit you, that's about it." The jar stopped turning and he frowned at it, spun it again. "And I like it better when you visit me _here_."

"Guess you shouldn't have made me CEO, then."

He flicked his wrist and the jar spun into a blur of green and silver and red once more; he grinned at her, "But you're so good at it, Potts. Far better than I ever was or ever could be. And I appreciate you. Really and truly." He cleared his throat and shifted and brought bright eyes up to hers. "You sure you don't want a martini now?"

She dropped her eyes to watch the blurred jar as it slowed again; he started it moving again as soon as it stopped. "Why now?" she blurted out, her head coming up sharply, before she could bite it back.

He was looking at her, a slight smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "I know it's not noon yet, but you weren't really serious about th…."

"Why. Now?" she asked again, holding his gaze evenly, "After a decade and a half, why _now_?"

He looked startled for a moment, then regained his usual cocky composure; he smiled slowly – and sensuously, she couldn't help but notice – and queried, "Why _not_ now, Potts?"

As she tried to decide how she was going to respond to him, the whirring of the jar stopped. His eyes dropped to it and he smiled widely. Her eyes followed his. The lid of the jar was pointed straight at her.

"_Tony_," she said warningly.

He shrugged. "Rules are rules. That's how the game is played."

"There is no game. I didn't agree to a game," she protested. "It's my birthday! The birthday person gets to choose the games!"

"But tradition – and the immutable laws of spin the bottle - dictates that the birthday person gets a kiss," he said leaning over the table with determination in his eyes and purpose on his face.

She took a deep breath, finally decided – even though she had really decided months before, when he was returned to her out of a cave and the desert – and let her eyes slip closed.

But there was no kiss, just his breath – laced with coffee and sugar cereal - caressing her lips as he said, "This is why _now_, Virginia. Because you'll _let_ me." And then his lips met hers.

Part of her was firmly in the moment, feeling every crease and indentation of his mouth on hers; another part – one that was gaining ground – was saying _Tony! You're kissing Tony! Your boss! Your employee! Boss! Employee!_ _Boss! Employee!_ _Boss! Employee!_ like she was in a crappy remake of _Chinatown.  
_  
"Pepper!"

She blinked and realized that, in fact, Tony was no longer kissing her – he had leaned back and was staring at her with confusion and worry and no small measure of hurt in his brown eyes. The hurt surprised her – calmed her.

"What?"

"I know it's been months since I did anything like that…."

She raised her eyebrows.

"It's been since before Afghanistan and you _know_ it," he said – which she did, but had kind of wanted to hear him say anyway – "but I was _known_ for it, Potts – _famous _for it – well, that and other things – and you drift away while I'm doing some of my finest work ever?"

"That was your finest work?" she asked, more than a little touched.

"You couldn't tell?" he demanded. "Good Lord, Pepper."

"It was very good work," she assured him. "It just took a little getting used to."

He frowned. "My kisses take getting used to?"

"_Kissing you_," she clarified.

His eyes lit. "And?"

She took a deep breath and stared back at him evenly, the last of the panic rapidly dissipating in the wake of the light shining in his eyes. "I could get used to it."

"Excellent," he breathed, leaning towards her again.

"But I want to make it very clear that I'm not having sex with you today." A second after the words were out of her mouth she realized that that she had just implied that she _would_ be having sex with him at some undetermined date in the future. A second after that realization hit she decided she was just fine with it.

Tomorrow?" he asked cheerily.

"_Tony_," she said, trying for exasperated but sounding pretty damn cheery herself; she closed the distance between their lips and thought briefly that _this_ was what it felt like to be a particle in a supercollider – then that was gone and her only thoughts were of _Tony Tony Tony_ and, unsurprisingly, olives.


End file.
